Suicide is Painless
by Madwoman in the TARDIS
Summary: Hawkeye, B.J., and Charles deal with personal demons upon their return to the States after the war. I've decided to make additions.
1. Sentimental Journey

Copyright and Author's Rambling

Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce, Daniel Pierce, Margaret Houlihan, Lorraine Andersen, Roy Dupree, B.J. Hunnicutt, Peg Hunnicutt, Erin Hunnicutt, Sherman Potter, Mildred Potter, Charles Winchester, Honoria Winchester, Maxwell Q. Klinger, Soon-Lee Klinger, Father Francis Mulcahy, Sidney Freedman, "Trapper" John McIntyre, Louise McIntyre, Becky McIntyre, Kathy McIntyre, Walter "Radar" O'Reilly, Patty Haven, Frank Burns, Louise Burns, Lorraine Anderson, Henry Blake, Lorraine Blake, Andrew Blake, Janie Blake, and Molly Blake belong to Larry Gelbart and/or whoever created M*A*S*H.  Any children born after the war and characters you don't recognize from the show belong to moi.

The title of this story (and the following lyrics) is from the song _Suicide is Painless_, the theme song of M*A*S*H.  The music is by Johnny Mandel and the lyrics are by Mike Altman.

The title of this chapter is from the song _Sentimental Journey_, composed by Les Brown.  It was played in the episode "Your Hit Parade."

Through early morning fog I see, 

_Visions of the things to be,_

_The pains that are withheld for me,_

_I realize and I can see …_

_That suicide is painless._

_It brings on many changes._

_And I can take or leave it if I please._

Chapter One: Sentimental Journey 

Marty's General Store

Crabapple Cove, Maine

Saturday, September 12, 1953

            Dr. Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce perused the hardware section until his eyes caught the display of caulking guns.  He had arrived in Crabapple Cove less than a month ago, and he was still adjusting to civilian life.  A reporter who interviewed the personnel of the 4077th had asked how they were going to adjust to life back in the States.  Either he or B.J. (he couldn't remember who) had replied, _I was already a civilian – it's the Army I had to adjust to._   All he'd seen and done during those three years served to change the Hawkeye Pierce who hugged his father goodbye at the train station.  He was sure that he had changed somewhat, and he knew that his neighbors were aware of the changes, even if they couldn't understand the reasons behind his transformation.  The old Hawkeye, the one who first arrived at the M.A.S.H. 4077th, was flirtatious, witty, excitable, hyper, and had a plethora of practical jokes up his sleeve.  He could take any situation – no matter how serious – and turn it into something humorous.  The new Hawkeye had a serious demeanor and a short fuse.  At times, he felt little patience for the people and activities he had immersed himself with before the war.  He holed himself in the house to avoid his neighbors' annoying curiosity.   _Did you kill anyone?  What was it like?  Were you a hero?  _When eight-year-old Jake Wilder referred to war as "heroic", he had to fight the urge to vomit.  The worst part was when they pressed him for information about Tommy Gillis.  He didn't have any desire to relive Tommy's death any more than he had to.

"Well, well, well, if it isn't Benjamin Pierce himself," a cheery voice stated behind him.

            He grabbed a caulking gun and turned to face whomever had addressed him.  "Last I checked," he replied, attempting to crack a smile.  "Hello, Mrs. Parsons."

            "What brings you into town?" the portly old woman asked.

            "I need to repair a window before the weather turns colder."  

            "Joe Dodson was in here just last week with the exact same problem," she informed him.  "Lila threatened to flush his cigarettes down the toilet if that window wasn't fixed by the time the boys started school."  Judy Parsons had grown up with Hawkeye's parents.  His mother had considered the woman one of her closest friends, but his father referred to her as "a lacerated boil" and "an old, gossiping witch" (among other monikers).  Although Daniel Pierce and Judy Parsons were forever butting horns, the elderly doctor had to admit that he and Hawkeye would never have survived Rose Pierce's death if it weren't for "the gossiping witch's" assistance with cooking and getting Hawk ready for school in the mornings.  "Have you heard from Mary Lou Abbott since you've come home?"  He shook his head and contemplated ways to make his escape.  "She and Bobby are divorced now.  Of course, I'm not surprised, what with him cheating on her and all.  The poor girl caught him red-handed.  Got so mad she threw a plate …"

The door chimed, drowning out Mrs. Parsons and letting the cashier know that someone was entering the store.  A young woman stepped inside, one arm wrapped around a tiny bundle.  She wasn't anybody Hawkeye knew personally, although he was sure he'd passed by her on the street.  She reached into the bundle and readjusted its contents.  

            "Stone Larson married a girl he met over in Korea," Mrs. Parsons continued.  "Can you believe that?" she asked indignantly.  "All the wonderful young ladies we have here in Crabapple Cove – and he has to go and run off with a gook."

            Hawkeye tightened his grip around the caulking gun to restrain from striking the old woman.  "I'd appreciate it if you didn't refer to Stone's wife as a 'gook,'" he responded.

            "Well, what would you like me to call her?"

            "How about by her given name?" he suggested harshly.  "Or 'Stone's wife'?"  He'd gotten used to arguing with ignorant soldiers over proper terminology and etiquette, but he hadn't planned to deal with prejudice back home.  Folks pressed him for information – asking if he got to _shoot any of those yellow Reds.  Any time somebody described the North Koreans as animals or expressed shock at his willingness to treat the enemy, he responded by telling the person about Dr. Paik.  Had the surgeon not been on the wrong side of the war, he most likely would have made a fine addition to the 4077th.  "How would you like it if she referred to you as 'that fat old hag'?"_

            The old woman bristled at the young doctor's apparent lack of respect for his elders.  "Well!" She gasped.  "I never!"

Suddenly, a series of high-pitched wails pierced throughout the store.  Hawkeye felt the blood drain out of his head and his heart beat dangerously fast.  Black dots swam in his vision, and Marty's General Store faded into the back of a M.A.S.H. bus.  He grabbed the shelf to support his trembling body.

"Benjamin?  What's the matter, Benjamin?"… "Hawkeye!"… "Someone get a doctor!"

            The voices sounded muffled and far away.  "D-don't …don't s-s-suff …o…c-cate …  that b-baby!" he begged the young woman in harsh gasps.  "Don't suffocate the baby!"  He felt his knees collapse from beneath him and he fell to the floor.  People were milling around him, but he was barely aware of their presence.  "Don't suffocate the baby," he mumbled, repeating the words like a mantra.  His entire body was shaking, his hands were clammy, and his chest felt like it was going to explode.  The moment the dead infant's neck rolled back over its mother's arm, he let out a bloodcurdling scream.  And then everything was black.

* * *

Hunnicutt Residence

Mill Valley, California

Friday, December 25, 1953

            "Ho!  Ho!  Ho!" B.J. Hunnicutt called out in a booming voice.  "Merry Christmas."  He adjusted the Santa Claus hat and squatted in front of the yellow-haired toddler.  "Have you been a good little girl this year?"

            Two-year-old Erin clapped her hands in delight.  "I'm always good!" she answered.  

            B.J. planted a kiss on the top of her head.  Then, he picked up one of the presents.  "Here's one for Erin," he said, handing her the gift.  "And one for Mommy … one for Daddy … one for Erin … one for Mommy … one for Daddy …"

            Once all the presents had been distributed, the Hunnicutts proceeded to rip off the wrapping paper.

            "Oh, honey, it's beautiful," Peg gushed.  She pressed the flannel nightgown to her chest. 

            "Look, Mommy!" Erin shouted.  "Santa brought me a dolly."

            Peg winked at her husband.  "He sure did, sweetie."

B.J. proudly held up the leisure suit his wife had given him.  _Not a trace of green anywhere in it,_ he thought.  One of the first things he had done upon arrival in the States (after hugging the life out of his beloved wife and daughter) was to ban all of his green-colored clothes to the attic.  He had been devoted to Peg and Erin before he was drafted (Hawkeye had once dubbed him "the family man"), but now he found himself showering affection upon his family every chance he could get and vowing to never leave again.  For the first few months since his return home, he found himself suffering from insomnia.  No matter how many times Peg tried to console him, he was always reminded that the war had forced him to miss important milestones in his daughter's early life – and he wasn't about to miss any more.  Part of him was glad to spend his first Christmas with his child, but another part knew that he had missed the real "first" Christmas.  _Just like I missed her first (and second) birthdays … her first word … her first step …_

            Peg squeezed her husband's hand.  "You're here now," she whispered.  "That's all that matters."

            He wanted to argue with her, wanted to say _It does matter!  I wasn't there for Erin, and that's a time I can never replace._  Instead, he kept his mouth shut and squeezed her hand back.  There was no use in voicing concerns he had aired since his first letter he had mailed home.

The telephone rang, distracting B.J. from his thoughts.  He stepped into the kitchen.  "Hunnicutt residence," he greeted the caller.  "Santa Claus speaking."

            "Silent night, holy night.  All is calm, all is bright," a familiar voice sang.

            "Colonel Potter!" B.J. exclaimed.

            "Just plain 'Doc Potter' now, son," Potter corrected him.

            "God it's good to hear from you."

            "Same here.  Merry Christmas, B.J."

            "Merry Christmas to you, too, Col – sir – Sherman."

            "Takes some time getting used to, doesn't it," Potter said.

            "I can't picture you as anything other than 'Colonel Potter,'" B.J. admitted.

            "I'm talking about adjusting to civilian life.  How's your little girl?"

            "Opening her Christmas presents as we speak.  How's Mildred?"

            "Mother is doing just dandy.  I spoke to Radar a few minutes ago."

            B.J. leaned against the counter.  "How's our 'gentleman farmer' doing these days?"

            "You're gonna have to add 'Daddy' to his resume."

B.J.'s mouth dropped open.  "Radar – our little corporal – is going to be a father?"

            Potter sighed.  "The boy's grown up."  Nobody could forget the night Radar called the 4077th and announced his engagement to a Miss Patricia Haven from Lancaster, Missouri.  He had crossed paths with the nurse while en route to Ouijongbu from R&R in Tokyo.  When his Uncle Ed passed away and he was sent Stateside, Radar initiated contact with her.  They were married six months later.  "Have you spoken to Pierce or Houlihan lately?"

            B.J. shook his head.  "Margaret's at a V.A. hospital in Arlington last I heard," he told the ex-colonel when he realized shaking his head was futile over the phone line.  "I've tried calling Hawk, but I can never get through to him."  He'd attempted to establish contact with his friend several times since returning home, but Hawk never wanted to talk.  He suspected something was wrong, but didn't want to press the issue.  He just hoped Hawkeye or his dad would have enough sense to call Sidney Freedman if it came to that."Did you get a postcard from Klinger and Soon-Lee?" he asked, trying to change the subject.

            "With a shot of Fort Dix, of course."  They both laughed, remembering Klinger's wasted attempts to hide his true location from his mother.  "They located Soon-Lee's mother."

            "And the rest of her family?"

"No luck, but knowing Klinger's perseverance with the section eight stunts, he's not about to quit searching."

            They brought each other up to date on other former members of the four-oh-double-natural.  Father Mulcahy spent half of his time at the church orphanage, and the other half at the Philadelphia Academy for the Deaf.  Charles Winchester was settled into his position as Chief of Thoracic Surgery at Boston Mercy and was rumored to be keeping company with the daughter of one of Boston's most elite businessmen.

            Erin Hunnicutt tugged at her father's leg.  "I'm hungry, Daddy," she whined.

            "Gotta cook breakfast," he told the elder doctor.  "Merry Christmas, sir."

            "And a Merry Christmas to you and yours," Potter replied before ending the phone call.

            B.J. lifted his daughter and hoisted her upon his shoulders.  "Merry Christmas, angel."

* * *

Boston Mercy Hospital

Boston, Massachusetts

Sunday, February 14, 1954

            Charles Emerson Winchester III sank into his office chair and yawned.  As the Chief of Thoracic Surgery, he was aware that the hours would be unorthodox.  _At least I'm not in a horrid operating room in the middle of an uncivilized world,_ he reminded himself.  The better part of the day had been spent observing the newest addition in action.  Although Dr. John McIntyre was what he considered "an Irish rogue," a "ruffian prankster," and a notorious "Don Juan DeMarco," he had to admit that the man certainly was skilled when it came to performing surgery.

            His secretary poked her head in the door.  "A Camille Rutherford on the phone for you, Doctor."

            "Thank you, Lucille," he acknowledged and picked up the telephone.  "Dr. Charles Emerson Winchester speaking," he stated in a professional tone.

            He could almost swear he could envision Camille's smirk on the other end of the line.  "You forgot 'the Third'," she teased.  "Why so formal?"

            After Lucille closed the door, Charles was able to relax.  "Force of habit," he explained.  "It's a breach of protocol to air your romantic feelings in the middle of a professional atmosphere," he added.

            He had known Camille since they were children.  Charles Emerson Winchester II and Quentin Garrett Rutherford were friends and business partners; they sent their offspring to the same private academies and anticipated a union between the two families in order to carry on the Winchester and Rutherford legacies – mainly, one between Charles and Camille.  He didn't have anything against Camille Fanshaw Rutherford, but he felt that the only reason he was keeping company with the lady was to please his father.  It was obvious that she, too, was simply complying with her own father's wishes by seeing him.  She had knowledge and a love of art, music, theater, literature, and all the other cultural classics so important to Charles.  The names "Rutherford" and "Winchester" were frequent topics of conversation amongst the Boston elite.  Camille didn't see Charles as pompous; they shared similar political and societal opinions.

Before the war, the perfect evening consisted of dinner at their favorite French restaurant, followed by a performance of the Boston Symphony.  Conversations revolved around reviews of the evening's symphony, name-dropping, and whether or not so-and-so's name would appear in the Society Page of the _Boston Globe._  

His time in Korea had caused an inner transformation to occur.  When the war ended, Charles had one simple request for his family – no music.  Though they couldn't understand why, they obliged and kept the music off whenever he was within earshot.  Listening to his Victrola had been the only thread linking him to sanity – his only escape from the wretched war.  But the tragic incident with the Chinese musicians had changed all that.  Now, he couldn't even hear one chord without seeing the musicians' faces.  And their faces always meshed into the one musician's blown-apart chest.  Camille hadn't been as receptive of his request; she couldn't fathom why he would shun something he'd been passionate about all his life.__

            "What would you like to do for Valentine's Day?" she asked.

            "Is that today?" he asked.  "I nearly forgot!  You'll have to pardon me, we've been quite busy here today," he added.

"I can imagine," she laughed.  "What time does your shift end?"

            He smiled at the sound of her laughter.  "I'm the one who designates the shifts in this department," he replied haughtily.  He lowered his voice.   "Does eight o'clock sound good to you?"  _I'll take her to – I'll have Pierre set up a romantic, exquisite candlelit dinner._

            "Better make that eight-thirty," Camille said.

            Lucille knocked on the door.  "Pardon me, doctor," she apologized.  "Dr. McIntyre …"

            "Tell him I'll see him in five minutes," Charles told his secretary.  She nodded and exited the room.  "Why eight-thirty?" he asked Camille.

            "A woman needs all the time she can get to freshen up," Camille told him.  "And besides – you need time to get ready, too.  Maybe do some of that last minute Valentine's Day shopping."

            "Eight-thirty it is, then," Charles agreed.  "Why don't I have Stanley drive…" The sudden and violent opening of his office door interrupted him.  "McIntyre, you cretin!" he growled at the intruder.  "Don't you ruffians know how to even knock?"

            "Winchester, we need to talk," McIntyre said matter-of-factly.

            "I'm in the middle of a phone call!" Charles roared.  "What gives you the gall to enter a room uninvited?"

            Lucille poked her head in.  "I'm – I'm sorry, sir," she stammered.  "He – he …"

            Charles waved her away.  "It's quite alright, Lucille," he assured the young woman while sending daggers McIntyre's way.

            "I can walk," Camille broke in.  "Stanley doesn't have to go through all that trouble."

            He had completely forgotten about the woman on the other end of the phone.  "There's no need for you to walk," he told her.  "I must be going now.   I have some unwanted company to tend to at the moment."  He spat out the word "unwanted".

            Dr. John McIntyre hovered over Dr. Winchester's desk with his arms crossed over his chest, waiting impatiently for the other surgeon to end his phone call.  "Finally!" he announced loudly when Charles slammed down the receiver.  "We need to order twelve more cases of morphine," he said before Charles could berate him for the interruption.

            "Was it necessary to tell me that now?" Charles asked.  "Or could it have waited until I was finished with my telephone call?"

            "You see, I couldn't decide between asking you now or next year," the tall, curly-haired doctor answered in a sarcastic tone.  "Now seemed as good a time as any."

            Charles groaned in exasperation.  _This man is unruly, undisciplined, and simply obnoxious – just like Pierce._  He tried to picture what the two imps would be like if they ever had the chance to meet.  The thought sent a chill down his spine.


	2. Taking You Home

**Copyright and Author's Rambling**

How many times do I have to list the standard copyright procedure?  If you recognize characters from the show, then they belong to Larry Gelbart.  If you've never heard of them in your life (and nobody on those M*A*S*H boards seems to recognize them from any of the 256? Episodes of the eleven-year run), then they most likely belong to moi.

The title of this chapter (and the following lyrics) is from the song _Taking You Home, _written by Don Henley, Stan Lynch, and Stuart Brawley, and performed by Don Henley.

_I had a good life_

_Before you came_

_I had my friends and my freedom_

_I had my name_

_Still there was sorrow and emptiness_

_Oh, in this love I found strength I never knew I had_

_And this love_

_Is like nothing I have ever known_

_Take my hand, love_

_I'm taking you home_

_I'm taking you home_

Chapter Two: Taking You Home

O'Reilly Farm

Ottumwa, Iowa

Sunday, April 25, 1954

            Walter Eugene "Radar" O'Reilly dug his toe into the carpet.  _What's taking it so long?_ He wondered agitatedly.  When he was younger, he believed that babies were hatched out of eggs.  Right now, he wished that were the case – that way, he wouldn't have to listen to Patty scream and not be able to do a single thing to help her.

            "Sit down, Walter," Edna O'Reilly ordered as she left the "maternity ward".  "Heaven knows you're gonna wear a hole right in this here carpet."

            "How is she?" he asked.

            "Coming along just fine," the old woman assured her son.  

            "It's been nearly nineteen hours!" Walter protested.  "I'm going in there."

            His mother blocked the door.  "Sonny, I been told to keep you outside.  That room's for the doctor and the womenfolk."

"Yet?" Park Sung inquired, wiping his mud-stained hands on his trousers. 

"Get in that bathroom and wash those dirty hands," Edna ordered.

Walter gave the young man a sympathetic shrug.   "Not yet," he told him.  The sixteen-year-old had arrived in Ottumwa less than a year earlier – the O'Reillys needed help running the farm and Park Sung needed an education and a safe place (preferably away from the war) to grow crops – now Edna and Walter couldn't picture the farm without him.  As a fatherless only child, Walter had adopted many surrogate family members over the years.  Lieutenant Colonel Henry Blake had been like a father and Captain Hawkeye Pierce had been like an older brother; within several months, Park Sung had become an adopted kid brother.  The young man had been his best man at his wedding.  To his mother: "Says who?"

            "Patricia and your Ma."  Edna O'Reilly was one of the only people he knew who called people by their full names.  "Why, you fainted when Bessie gave birth just last month," she reminded him.

            Walter ignored his mother and entered the room.  Patty smiled through the sweat and managed to give his hand a squeeze.  

"Save all that squeezing for the baby," he told her.

            "What are you doing in here?" the expectant mother asked through gritted teeth.

            "You didn't really think I was gonna wait outside, did you?"

            From the moment he and Patty Haven first met, he knew that she was "the one".  She was the hypothetical girl that Hawkeye told him he was saving himself for.  Shortly after returning home from Korea, he had looked her up.  One good thing about being a company clerk was learning how to deal with telephone operators.  In ten minutes flat, he was hearing her voice on the other end of the phone.  

He had been so ecstatic when she accepted his proposal, that he had immediately put a call in to the good old 4077th.  He'd forgotten that it was only four in the morning.  Klinger was ready to kill the jerk that interrupted his sleep, until he recognized the voice on the other end of the line.  The cross-dressing corporal woke up an equally grumpy Captain Hawkeye Pierce under the pretense that a "three-star general with half his marbles missing" was demanding to speak to him.  This wasn't the first time Radar had impersonated a higher-ranking officer before.  "Captain Pierce?" he had growled in a low voice.  "This is General Clark Kent.  You ruined a fine evening at the Pink Pagoda.  My nurse would have performed beautifully if you hadn't interrupted."  He intercepted the captain's protestations with threats to "lock you up in the stockade."  "Now, I like to consider myself a fair man.  But I have no choice but to order you to report directly to my headquarters … in Ottumwa, Iowa."  "Radar?" Hawkeye finally muttered in disbelief.  "How ya doing, Hawkeye?"  It was hard to tell who was more excited – Radar or his old friends at the 4077th.

            "Just one more push," the doctor instructed Patty, bringing Walter's focus back to the task at hand. 

            A tiny wail broke through.  "Oh, boy," Walter groaned before he fainted.  

* * *

Andersen Apartment

Arlington, Virginia

Tuesday, July 13, 1954

            "Pierce," Lorraine Andersen repeated to the clerk.  "P-I-E-R-C-E.  Pierce.  First name: Benjamin."

            "There's a Captain Benjamin Pierce from Cleveland, Ohio," he informed her.

            "Sounds good to me," she said.  _I haven't a clue where the hell the man lives._  "Is it possible to have a number to reach him?"

            "It is against Army regulations to give out personal information."

            "Thanks anyway, Corporal," Lorraine said.  She hung up the phone.  _Step one: Locate Ben Pierce – completed._  She leaned her head against the couch for a moment, giving herself some time before she made the next phone call.

            An infant's wails quickly ended her five-minute respite.  Lorraine hoisted herself off the couch and went into the small bedroom.  She lifted the two-month-old out of the crib.  "There, there," she cooed.  "Hush, now.  Lorraine is here."  _It should be "Mama is here," _she thought with a twinge of sadness.  Diana's shrieks increased in volume, as if she was mirroring the nurse's mood.

            As soon as Lorraine Andersen and Margaret Houlihan arrived stateside, the two friends found an apartment to rent.  The place was within six blocks walking distance from the V.A. hospital where they were stationed.  For a while, it seemed like old times again: staying up late and chatting into the early morning hours, playing practical jokes on each other, and – most importantly – no sounds of war looming over their heads.  

The day Margaret returned home from a doctor visit and announced she was pregnant was both an exciting and bittersweet moment.  Margaret had always wanted to be a mother, but that would mean – to quote Captain Pierce – "trading in her combat boots for booties."  She had resigned from the Army and began searching for a place to live.  "You can stay here," Lorraine kept telling her.  "This is your apartment, too."  The next few months went by pretty smoothly, with Margaret suffering from morning sickness, swelled ankles, strange cravings, and other typical afflictions of pregnant women.  Everyone expected the birth to go just as smoothly.  Since this was her first child, Margaret's labor lasted over twenty-one hours.  It also caused the expectant mother to suffer severe abdominal pain.  Instead of ceasing after the delivery was over, the pain worsened.  The obstetrician diagnosed abdominal hemorrhaging due to complications from giving birth; she died six hours later. 

Lorraine rocked her late friend's daughter in her arms and waited for her to fall back asleep.  If it weren't for numerous conversations over the years about the names of future children, or Margaret determining possible names during her pregnancy, she would not have known what to call the child.  Margaret had always liked the name "Diana."  She suspected "Rose" went with "Diana" or belonged to someone special to her friend.

She placed the infant back into the crib and returned to the telephone.  "Operator, I'd like to place a call."

"What party?" the nasally voiced woman inquired.

"Benjamin Pierce," Lorraine said.  "Cleveland, Ohio."

"One moment, please."

"Is this Benjamin Pierce?" she asked when she heard the customary "hello, who's calling please?"

"Yes, this is Pierce," the man droned.

Lorraine frowned.  She had never met Benjamin "Hawkeye" Pierce (he was at the 8063rd while she and Captain Dupree were at the 4077th), but she'd heard enough about him from Margaret to suspect she had gotten the wrong man.  "Did you serve with the 4077th M.A.S.H. in Ouijongbu, Korea?"

"No, I was with the 7099th.  Perhaps you've got the wrong 'Benjamin Pierce'," he suggested.  He seemed tired and anxious to end the conversation as quickly as possible.

"Perhaps you're right," she agreed, partly mimicking his words.   "Sorry to bother you."  She placed the receiver into the cradle and ran her fingers through her curly black hair.  _This method's getting me nowhere._  She wasn't 100% sure that the man she was trying to locate was Diana's father, but she had a strong hunch.  Margaret had never divulged the identity of her baby's father; the way her eyes lit up whenever Hawkeye's name was mentioned had fed Lorraine's suspicions.

She stared at the telephone and attempted to plan the next course of action.  She knew that she was doing what Margaret would have wanted, but she kept running into dead ends.  She couldn't afford to take care of an infant.  If Hawkeye could not be located soon, Lorraine would have to resort to the one option she did not want to use – placing Diana in an orphanage.

* * *

Pierce Residence

Crabapple Cove, Maine

Friday, October 29, 1954

Hawkeye cleared off the last casserole dish from the table.  "A good meal as usual, Dad," he complimented Dr. Daniel Pierce.  "Now if you'll excuse me, I've got a date to get ready for."

            The elder Dr. Pierce grinned at his son.  "Don't thank me – thank Judy Parsons.  She's the one who made the broccoli noodle pudding."

            "Mrs. Parsons?" Hawkeye asked incredulously.  "Mrs. It's-Not-Cooked-Until-It's-Burnt-To-A-Crisp Parsons?"  He grabbed a sponge and began scrubbing the dirty plates.  "You've got to be kidding me."

            "I think she's a pretty good cook if you ask me," Daniel said.  His son snorted in reply.  "And she's got a terrific body."  He nudged Hawkeye in the ribs.  "If she was thirty years younger, I'm sure that …"

            Hawkeye was saved from his father's ribbing by the ringing of the telephone.  He quickly wiped his hands on a towel and picked up the receiver.  "Pierce residence," he greeted the caller. 

"May I please speak to Benjamin Franklin Pierce," a woman asked.

            "Yes, you may," he answered.  "But do you really want to is the question."  He paused, waiting for the woman to reply to the wisecrack.  "I'm Benjamin Pierce," he informed the caller.  "How can I help you?"

            "My name is Lorraine Andersen," she said.  _Why does that name sound familiar?_ Hawkeye wondered.  "I'm an old friend of Margaret Houlihan's."

            _Margaret!_ Hawkeye whispered to himself.  _I haven't heard from her in over a year.  I wonder how she's doing._  He made a mental note to call his old friend and catch up.  "She and I worked together at a M.A.S.H. unit in Korea."  He absentmindedly twirled the phone cord between his fingers.  "How do you know her?"

"We grew up together," she informed the doctor.  "You and a nurse traded places with me and …"

"Roy Dupree from the 8-0-6-3!" he broke in, suddenly recalling where he'd heard her name before.

"That's us," she laughed, stifling a lump in her throat.  A moment of silence on the other end, then:  "I don't know how to tell you this, but Margaret passed away." 

A shaky hand grabbed the edge of the counter as he attempted to let the woman's words sink in.  "You're kidding, right?" he managed to get out.  "Tell me this is a joke."  _A cruel Halloween prank that's three days early._

"I wish it was," Miss Andersen said.  

He could feel his hands and face getting clammy.  _Margaret's dead.  Major Hot Lips Houlihan is dead.  _The kitchen – no, the world – was spiraling around his body.  _The toughest, most sincere woman I've ever known._  He tried to erase the frightening image of his friend covered in tubes from his mind.  The last time he had seen Margaret was at the 8063rd M.A.S.H.  He had just arrived at Kimpo Air Base when a request came up for a surgeon.  Knowing that a familiar face would be there, he had done something he'd never done before or since – he volunteered.  During the two months he and Margaret spent together at the 8063rd, their friendship evolved into something bigger.  Nobody knew when the attraction had first appeared.  They both agreed that it was well before their one-night stand in the abandoned hut.  Margaret liked to say that they were meant for each other from day one – it just took three years to see through their differences.  After he returned home to Crabapple Cove, he and Margaret slowly lost touch.  _Now she's dead._  He swallowed the lump rising in his chest.

Daniel glanced at his son with concern.  "Is everything alright, Hawk?" he asked.  

He nodded and turned his attention back to the woman on the phone.  "How did it happen?" he asked weakly.

 "Abdominal hemorrhage."  Her voice was so quiet, he nearly had to strain his ear in order to hear her.  "Margaret left behind a daughter – I think you might be the father."

His mouth dropped open.  "How old is she?  Since when?  Does Margaret have any relatives?" he sputtered.  _Why couldn't Margaret tell me this herself?_

" Her name is Diana Rose and she's five-months-old," she informed him.  "You could take a paternity test to make sure, but – but I think this is what Margaret would have wanted."

A half-grin formed on Hawkeye's face at the mention of his daughter's name.  "Margaret named her after my mother," he realized aloud.  _And now she won't even get to know her own._

"Well, I guess that explains where the 'Rose' comes from," Lorraine said.

"When did Margaret …" he couldn't bring himself to say the dreaded word.

Lorraine sighed.  "Six hours after Diana was born.  There were complications with the delivery."

He could feel his temper rising.  "When the hell were you going to tell me this?"

"I've been trying to track you down for the past five months," she explained.  "The Army sent me on a wild goose chase."

"Well, that's the U.S. Army for you – as organized as it ever was."  That little joke was his way of apologizing.

She continued to spout information, but Hawkeye didn't hear her.  _A little girl.  I'm a daddy.  I've got a little girl.  _

"Dr. Pierce?" Lorraine pressed into his thoughts.  "Are you still on the line?"

"That's a lot to spring on me in just one phone call," he told her.  "So I'm sorry if I seem a little out of sorts, alright?"

"That's understandable," she assured him.  "As I was saying, either I could escort Diana to Maine, or you could meet us in Virginia."

"Why don't you take a train here?" he suggested.  "That will cut off on traveling costs."

Hawkeye knew before he placed the receiver back on the cradle that his father was watching him.

"Is everything alright?" Daniel repeated.  He helped Hawkeye into a chair.

"Margaret's dead," Hawkeye whispered.

Daniel's eyes grew wide.  "Margaret Houlihan?  The nurse in Korea you always used to talk about?"

Hawkeye nodded.  "Abdominal hemorrhage."  __

Dr. Pierce placed a hand on his son's shoulder. "I'm so sorry, son."  

"There's more," he told the old man.  "I'm a daddy."

"Well, I guess you divulged a lot less information about Margaret than I thought.  When are you going to meet him?"

"It's a 'her,' Dad," he corrected.  "Her name's Diana.  Margaret's friend Lorraine will arrive with her at the train station around five-forty-five next Wednesday afternoon."

"Why don't you get some rest, son," Daniel suggested.  "I'll finish clearing up the kitchen."

Hawkeye stood up.  "Actually, I was thinking of canceling my date and placing a call long-distance," he confessed.  He sometimes felt guilty that he hadn't kept better touch with his old colleagues at the 4077th.  He had written sporadically to B.J. and was the first person Radar phoned when his son was born.  Except for holidays and birthdays, correspondence was nil.  He stepped into the living room and picked up the telephone.

"Operator, I'd like to place a call to Mill Valley, California," he said.

"What party?" the operator asked.

"The Hunnicutt residence.  That's H-U-N-N-I-C-U-T-T."  He ran a hand over his face.

"One moment, please."

_What do I say?_ He wondered.  _Hiya, Beej, sorry I haven't called in awhile, Margaret's dead and I've got a daughter I never even knew I had?_  He suppressed a snort.  _Love-Em-And-Leave-Em Pierce has a little girl – that'll give the man a laugh._

"Hunnicutt residence," a familiar voice piped in.  "B.J. speaking."

"Beej?" he asked.  "It's me, Hawk."

"Hawk!" The other man exclaimed.  "It's good to hear from you, buddy.  How are things on the east coast?"

"Not so good, Beej," he admitted.  "I think you might want to sit down for this."  He waited several minutes before continuing.  "Margaret died," he informed his friend.

"When?"  His former bunkmate was digesting the information almost as well as he had.

"The woman who called said it happened five months ago," Hawkeye replied.  "She had an abdominal hemorrhage."  _Someone should record the message on a phonograph and play it back so I don't have to keep repeating myself._

"And you waited until now to tell me this?" B.J. yelled.  "I was her friend, too.  How could you …"

"I told you – I didn't find out until fifteen minutes ago," Hawkeye interrupted.  

"Sorry, Hawk.  I don't believe it – you two were always so close.  You didn't stay in touch?"

"Not since we left Korea."

 "Have you called anybody else yet?" B.J. asked.  Hawkeye told him that he hadn't.  "We should get together for a memorial service."

Hawkeye agreed, knowing full well that when it came to gathering people together, his old friend could pull it off.  He hated what he had to say next, because he was about to touch on a sore subject for the former M.A.S.H. surgeon.  "When you first came home from Korea, how did you get along with Erin?"

"She didn't recognize me," B.J. said.  "I forgave Radar when Peg told me that she had addressed every man in uniform as 'Daddy.'  She was a little hesitant around me at first, but … do you mind telling me why you're asking me this?"

"Margaret's hemorrhage was related to complications from giving birth," Hawk told his friend.  "She had a child – mine." He could almost swear he heard the other phone drop to the floor.

"Could you repeat that?" B.J. asked.  

"I'm a dad," he answered.  "I've got a five-month-old daughter and I never knew it."  He let the information sink into his brain again.  "I don't know how to be a dad, Beej," he complained.  "I know how to flirt with a female, dance with a female, tease a female, play with a female, but I've never been a dad to a female.  I've never been a dad, period.  You gotta help me."

* * *

Crabapple Cove Station

Crabapple Cove, Maine

Wednesday, November 3, 1954

            "Sit down, Hawkeye," Daniel Pierce commanded.  "You're acting like a hyperactive kid."

            The doctor stopped pacing long enough to shoot a worried glance at his father.  "I can't sit down – I'm too nervous."  He wrung his hands.  "What time is it?"

            Daniel checked his watch.  "Ten minutes till show time," he replied from his spot on the bench.

            Hawkeye resumed pacing and found his way to a lamppost.  He wrapped his arm around it and swung himself back and forth.  "Do you think she'll like the doll?" he asked, referring to the rag doll in the bag he was carrying.  The doll had belonged to Rose Pierce when she was a child, and she had saved it for a future daughter.  Future granddaughter would have to do.  The Hunnicutts had promised to send some of Erin's old clothes and toys.

            "I'm sure she will, son," Daniel said.  

            "What about her room?"

            "Stop swinging like that – you're making me dizzy."

            He blinked.  "I'm making you dizzy?"  He took a seat next to his father.  "I'm making myself dizzy."

            "There is absolutely nothing to worry about," Daniel assured his anxious son.  "What that little girl needs is to know that she will always have people who love her, people who care about her."

"But she's never even met me," Hawkeye protested.  "What if she doesn't like Crabapple Cove?  What if I raise her to be a maniac?  What if she's a difficult child?  Take my worst traits, take Margaret's worst traits, mix them together – and you've got trouble."  He stopped to catch his breath.  "What if she doesn't like me?  What if I fail her?"

            "You are not going to fail her," Daniel told him.  "The only way you can fail her is if you give up on her.  And you've never given up on anyone in your life."  He watched the conflicting emotions play across his son's face.  "When your mom died, I thought the world would collapse.  Every time you scraped your knee or caught a cold, I'd think 'If Rose were still alive, he'd be perfectly healthy.'  Treating hay fever, delivering babies, setting broken bones – that was my expertise.  Cooking breakfast, helping with schoolwork, reading bedtime stories – your mother was the greatest."  

            "The five-forty-five train will be in the station in approximately five minutes," the speakers announced.  Up ahead in the distance, they heard the faint sound of a train whistle.

            "You could tell a damn good bedtime tale yourself," Hawk said.  He stood up and rested a hand on the armrest.

            "I couldn't raise you like Rose Pierce," Daniel continued.  "I'm your father, not your mother.  She had her methods, and I had mine.  Just because I let you go to bed at nine o'clock instead of eight-thirty didn't mean that you were going to end up a juvenile delinquent."

            "No, just a delinquent," Hawk grinned.  He scuffed his toe along the cement.

            The blast of the train whistle grew sharper as the train rolled into the station.  Hawkeye took a deep breath and waited while the train came to a complete stop and the doors slid open.  About thirteen people stepped onto the platform, among them a woman pushing a stroller.  The woman looked around, finally setting her sights on Hawkeye.  She approached the Pierces.

            "Dr. Pierce?" she asked.

            "Call me Hawkeye," he told the woman.  

            "In that case, call me Lorraine," she replied, shaking his outstretched hand.  Sounds of an infant gurgling could be heard from the stroller.

            "This is my father, Daniel Pierce," Hawkeye said.  Daniel Pierce and Lorraine Andersen shook hands.

            Lorraine patted the girl on the head.  "Hawkeye, I'd like you to meet Diana."

            Hawkeye bent down to be eye level with the child.  He noticed that while she possessed Margaret's wavy light brown hair and facial features, her violet-blue eyes screamed "Pierce."  "Hello, Diana," he greeted his daughter.  

            "This is your daddy, Diana," Lorraine told the infant in a gentle voice.

            "And I'm your grandpa," Daniel said.

            "Did they serve you anything edible on the train?" Hawkeye asked.  No response.  "We're having chicken français tonight for dinner.  Tastes delicious with a side order of martini."  Diana responded by emitting an ear-splitting scream.

            "She's a little tired," the woman informed the men.  "We've had a long trip."

            "Coulda fooled me," Hawkeye said.  "And I thought she was the life of the party."  He tried to think of the tricks he, Trapper, and Radar had performed for the Korean orphans.  _She'd be too young for the good ones._  Finally, he reached into the bag and grabbed the rag doll.  He smiled at his daughter.  "Do you like dolls?" he asked, placing the doll in Diana's chubby hands.  "This belonged to my mom.  She would have wanted you to have it." The child gurgled.  "Some folks here might try to convince you that I'm a bit bananas – but don't let them fool you.  I'm more than 'bananas' – I'm loony.  Runs in the family."  Daniel shot him a dirty look and Diana just stared at him.  "Not that you have anything to worry about, of course.  You probably inherited your mother's sanity."   He was used to rambling on about nothing, but his tongue was starting to tire.  

            "Would you like to hold her?" Lorraine asked the new father.

            "Sure," he answered in a hesitant voice.  He held out his arms to receive the infant.  _She's beautiful.  _"Hey there, gorgeous," he cooed, brushing his finger over her button nose.  He attempted to ignore the sudden tightness in his chest.  

            "Would you like me to take her, son?" Daniel asked.  Hawkeye nodded and quickly passed Diana to her grandfather.  

            "What happens if I – ah – decide not to – ah…?" he asked.

            "She goes to an orphanage.  I wish I could keep her, but I can't afford to raise a child right now.  She might get lucky and be adopted, but the more time that passes, the less likely that will happen.  She could end up bouncing around foster homes."

            _I can't do that to her,_ he chastised himself.  He remembered when the 4077th was evacuated to a cave.  He and Margaret both had to face their fears – he had his claustrophobia and she had loud noises.  When the two of them returned to the camp in order to perform an emergency surgery, she had explained that she wasn't about to send one of her nurses to face what she herself could not.  _I can't let my daughter suffer because of my fears._  He could feel two pairs of eyes on him.  "I'll take her," he said quietly.  


	3. Bridge Over Troubled Water

**Copyright and Author's Rambling**

I don't own M*A*S*H.  If I did, the show wouldn't have become the wonderful phenomenon that has touched viewers for nearly three decades.  The credit goes to Larry Gelbart, Burt Metcalfe, and Gene Reynolds.  And, of course, we cannot forget Richard Hooker, without who's book we'd never even have M*A*S*H at all.

The scene at the end of  this chapter has some anti-Semitic comments.  Please note that I most definitely do not prescribe to such hateful rhetoric; I am merely recording the thoughts of those particular characters.  You have been forewarned.

The title of this chapter (and the following lyrics) is from the song _Bridge Over Troubled Water_, written and performed by Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel.
    
    _When you're weary, feeling small,_
    
    _When tears are in your eyes, I will dry them all;_
    
    _I'm on your side. When times get rough_
    
    _And friends just can't be found,_
    
    _Like a bridge over troubled water_
    
    _I will lay me down._
    
    _Like a bridge over troubled water_
    
    _I will lay me down._

Chapter Three: Bridge Over Troubled Water

Winchester Estate

Boston, Massachusetts

Thursday, November 25, 1954

            Honoria Ellis Winchester positioned the needle over the record and let herself be overcome by the sounds of Tchaichovsky.  The guests for the Thanksgiving Charity Ball weren't scheduled to arrive for another four hours.  She had plenty of time to relax and make some adjustments to the still life she had been working on.  She rearranged the fruit and candles to match the arrangement in her painting, and then proceeded to pick up the paintbrush.  _I'm running out of red paint.  Guess I'll have to paint the apples green._  Mother and Dad had accused her of wasting her time with idle nonsense, but Charles was encouraging her to do what she loved.

"I said, turn it off!" Charles screamed as he burst into the parlor, the color of his face slightly matching the color of his hair.  He flung his arm out and knocked the old phonograph to the floor, replacing the melodious sounds of the symphony with the cacophony of broken machinery.

Honoria looked up from her easel.  "Charles, what's wrong?" she inquired in the soft tone of hers.

            "How many times must I repeat myself?" her older brother yelled.  "All I ask for is some goddamn peace and quiet.  No music!"  Honoria blushed at his choice of language.  "Now tell me, what the hell is so difficult to understand?"

            "I'm – I'm s-s-sorry, Ch-Charles," she stammered.  "I th-thought you were down-downstairs."  Seeing her brother fly into a rage was frightening.  Although they were separated by nearly a decade, the two siblings were extremely close.  They had gone through everything together, from their father's distance to the death of their brother David.  When one was upset or afraid, the other one was usually the only person they would accept comfort from.  She was twenty-two-years-old and finishing her senior year at Radcliff when the war broke out.  Two years later, she found herself hugging her brother goodbye before he embarked on the longest separation of their lives.  Even while he was overseas, they were able to confide in each other through letters and phonograph recordings.  But since Charles' return from Korea, all that had changed.  The first words out of his mouth when she, Mother, and Dad met him at the airport were "No music."  She had tried to ask him why once, but he refused to answer.  _Whatever happened, it must have been dreadful,_ she finally concluded.  He would tell her eventually, when he was ready.  She was sure of it.  _I want the old Charles back._  

            Charles bent down and brushed a tear off of his sister's cheek.  She cringed.  _Have I really been crying?_ She wondered.  "I'm sorry, Nori," he said, using her pet name.

            "What happened to you?" she asked.

            "What ever do you mean?" he responded, even though he was fully aware of what she was saying.  

            "In Korea," she explained.  "What happened in Korea?" 

"Nothing I care to discuss, dear sister."  He gave his reply and made himself comfortable on the loveseat.  

            "There was a time when we could tell each other everything," Honoria reminded her brother.  

            "Times change.  People change." He shot back.  "If you ever decide to leave this little nest of yours, you'd understand."

            She glared at her older brother.  "How will I ever understand if you won't let me understand?"  The paintbrush in her hand was forgotten.  "I may not have been in Korea.  I may not have witnessed any of the atrocities that you had to.  But if you need someone to confide in, I'm here for you.  I've always been, Charles."

            "I know that," he assured her.  "Thank you, Nori."  He rapped on the armrest and cast nervous glances at the shattered phonograph.

            "Well, Charles?" she pressed.  

            He took a deep breath, opening his mouth to speak but closing it again.  "I'd prefer not to discuss it," he said curtly. 

            "Why not?" she demanded.  "You cannot keep this bottled up.  You need to open up to somebody.  If you won't tell me, at least talk to a psych …"

            Her brother gasped.  "Are you suggesting that I subject myself to …" he gagged.  " … A psychiatrist?"  Honoria nodded.  "Like hell I will!" he roared.  "The very idea!  A Winchester does not need to be bothered with Freudian mumbo-jumbo."

            _If I were to tell him he sounds just like Father, he'd probably go into a state of shock._  Instead, she decided to focus on the issue at hand.  "I'm not implying that you're crazy," she assured her older brother.  "There are wonderful psychiatrists who specialize in war trauma.  I'm merely suggesting that you utilize that option."

            "I don't need a shrink picking apart my brain." 

_Or maybe not, _she added silently.  She had never been able to out stubborn her brother, so she took a different approach.  "What about your friends from the 4077th?  I'm sure they've got scars to heal, too."  He nodded.  "Didn't somebody from California call you one morning – sometime around six o'clock?"

            "B.J. Hunnicutt.  It was only three in the morning where he lives," he explained.  "He had been awake all night and decided if he couldn't sleep, neither could the rest of the world."

            "What about the doctor who suffered a nervous breakdown at the end of the war?"

            "Hawkeye Pierce.  I'm not sure how he's coping," he admitted.

            "Don't you see?" Honoria said.  "The three of you need each other.  It doesn't matter how hard their families and I try to understand.  Nobody can comprehend the horrors you saw the way that they can.  B.J. and Hawkeye will be able to empathize with you, because they were in the same place."  

"That's turning out to be quite a masterpiece," he commented, his attention suddenly focused on her painting.  Even as a child, Charles Emerson Winchester III had difficulty showing his emotions.  Getting him to open up was like getting blood from a stone, and Honoria knew it.

            She stood and planted a kiss on her brother's balding head.  "People care about you, Charles.  Don't ever forget that."

* * *

Pierce Residence

Crabapple Cove, Maine

Friday, December 17, 1954

            "Hawkeye, you have a visitor!" Daniel Pierce shouted to his son.  When he received no reply, he turned to the person standing next to him.  "He's upstairs," he told the psychiatrist.  "Hasn't left his room since it happened."  

            "How long has 'it' been?" the psychiatrist inquired.  By 'it', the two men were referring to Hawkeye's most recent panic attack.

            The elder Dr. Pierce glanced sadly at the foot of the stairs and answered, "Three days."  He cracked his knuckles, more out of nervous habit than anything else.  "He won't eat, he won't sleep, he won't talk."  He shook his head.  "No, hold it – he does talk."

"What does he say?" the other man pressed. 

            Daniel shrugged.  "He keeps insisting a baby's crying.  The few times he's managed to fall asleep, he wakes up screaming about a baby being suffocated."  Although he didn't verbally express it, the plea to help his son was evident in the old man's eyes. 

            The psychiatrist followed the other doctor upstairs and knocked on the closed door.  "May I come in, Hawkeye?" he asked.  Daniel nodded for him to enter.  

            Hawkeye was sitting on the edge of the bed, staring out the window.  The psychiatrist noticed that he was wearing the infamous red bathrobe.  _I expected to find that garment burned._  He slowly approached the surgeon and came into his peripheral vision.  "Hi, Sidney," Hawkeye muttered in a monotone voice.  His attention was aptly focused on the scenery outside his window.  _Catatonia?_ The psychiatrist wondered.

"Anything interesting out there?" Sidney asked.  He sat on the desk chair.

            "Birds" was the simple reply.

            Sidney raised an eyebrow.  "Birds?"  He couldn't see or hear any birds that would be within Pierce's line of vision.

"Yeah, birds.  Birds are nice."  His voice was barely above a whisper.

            "Why are birds 'nice'?" Dr. Freedman pressed.

            "They're so innocent.  They don't hurt people.  They don't kill people.  They don't have to worry about war or death or disease or any of the filth we humans have to occupy our time with.  I like birds – I don't know.  Birds are …" He broke his concentration away from the window and turned to the psychiatrist.  "Sidney!"  He exclaimed once he recognized the psychiatrist.  He blinked to bring himself into the present.  "What brings you to my cozy corner of the world?"

            "Oh, I'm due for a medical conference over the weekend," he lied.  "Thought I'd stop by and see how everything was."

            Hawkeye grinned.  "Everything's fine," he assured him.  "How are things with you?"

            "Good," Sidney replied.  "I finally get to work regular office hours."

            "You don't get that option when you're a surgeon," Hawkeye told him.  "I've gotten phone calls at two a.m. because some kid paid the price for eating too many jelly donuts."  

            "How have you been feeling lately?"

            Pierce eyed the psychiatrist suspiciously.  "And what is that supposed to mean?"

"I hear you've been having panic attacks," Sidney hedged.

"I should have known this wasn't just a friendly 'I'm in the neighborhood and decided to drop by' kind of visit," Hawkeye scoffed.

            "You're too quick for me," the psychiatrist admitted.  "Your father was worried about you, so he …"

            "He's worried about nothing!" Hawkeye cut in.

            "When was the last time you left this room?" Sidney asked.  _Arguing won't work with Hawkeye,_ he reminded himself.  _I have to get him to realize the situation on his own._

            "I hadn't seen this room for over three years," the former captain exclaimed.  "People take advantage of their bedrooms.  They sleep in their bedrooms, read books in their bedrooms, get dressed in their bedrooms, have sex in their bedrooms … I even forgot what the place **smelled** like."  He leaned forward.  "Can you imagine that?  Slept in the same room my entire life and I forget how it smells."  He let out a forced laugh.

            "What was it like returning to your hometown?"

            "I missed Crabapple Cove so much.  I can't stand the way people kept bothering me – still do, some of them.  I get all these questions about glory and heroes and Tommy Gillis."  He stood up and began a frantic pace in front of the window.  "The worst is when a little kid asks those kinds of questions.  The damn government is already planting lies into the minds of five-year-olds.  Telling them that war is noble."  He slammed his fist into the wall.  "It's a lie, damnit!  They're all lies."

"Tell me about your panic attacks."

"I don't need your help, Sidney," Hawkeye shot back.  "I already know what caused the panic attacks.  I've been having them on and off since I got home from the war."

"I'm sure you'd like to get rid of them."

"I've gotten used to it.  If you're going to probe into my childhood, you're wasting your time – and mine."

            "Why don't you enlighten me a bit," Sidney suggested.

            "The panic attacks usually occur whenever there's an infant nearby."

            "Well, that's a start," Sidney told him.  "Any major changes in your life?" The surgeon shot him a dirty look.  "Besides the war," he added.  Daniel had informed him of Hawkeye's sudden thrust into fatherhood.

            "I'm a daddy."

            Sidney feigned shock.  "You?  A father?"  Hawkeye nodded.  "That's wonderful.  Who's the lucky lady?"  _Psychiatrists must be the only people who have to ask questions they already know the answers to._

            His friend scratched his ear.  "Margaret and I were linked at the 8063rd.  After the war, she took a position at a V.A. hospital in Virginia, and I returned to Maine.  While I was treating scab wounds for casseroles, she was getting morning sickness from the child we conceived.  Of course, since we lost touch, I never knew …" He paused to take a breath.

            Sidney used the lull in Hawkeye's explanation to interject a question.  "What were you doing at the 8063rd?"

            "Helping out with the consolidation," the doctor replied.  He continued his explanation, filling the psychiatrist in on Lorraine Andersen's phone call and the events afterward.

            "That's a lot of news to bear in one phone call," Sidney said sympathetically.  "Tell me about your daughter."

            "Oh, she's beautiful, Sidney," Hawkeye gushed.  "It's too bad that she's taking her nap now.  You'd like her."  He grinned.  "People insist she's got my smile."

            "A future troublemaker," Sidney teased.

            "No, she's more like Margaret.  Demanding … bossy … she should get an award for being the pickiest baby in the state of Maine – maybe even the world.  Have you ever seen a seven-month-old go into hysterics because her doll isn't placed in the right spot in her crib?"  

            "Maybe I should check her out for obsessive-compulsive disorder," the psychiatrist suggested.  "Though I'm not sure if those traits you describe are from her mother's side."

            Hawkeye pretended to be insulted, and then his expression grew serious.  "I'm scared, Sidney," he confessed softly.

            "Why don't you sit down and tell me what's on your mind."  He gestured to the bed.

            The other man sank down onto the edge of the bed and began twirling the blanket between his fingers.  "I don't want Diana to die," he whispered.

            "What makes you think Diana is going to die?"

            "Every time I close my eyes, I see that damn baby," he said.  "And all of a sudden, the baby changes into Diana."  He waved his arms, becoming more vocal and more animated as he continued.  "She's sitting on this woman's lap.  The woman – the woman – she-she's got her hand over my daughter's mouth.  She's smothering her."  He laughed nervously.  "Some lady's trying to suffocate my little girl and all I can do is stand there and watch."

            "What happens next?" Sidney pressed.

            Hawkeye shrugged.  "I wake myself and the rest of the house screaming."

            "Are you worried that what happened on the bus that night could happen to Diana?"

            The medical doctor rolled his eyes and started to make a snide remark, but thought the better of it.  "I'm losing it, aren't I, Sidney."  He stated his fears out loud.  "You crack up once and you're cracked up for life."

            "I'm going to have to disagree with you there, sailor," Dr. Freedman told his friend/patient.  "You seem perfectly normal to me."  _As normal as can be expected compared to your previous breakdown._

            "I haven't driven any jeeps into walls," Pierce attempted to joke.

            "It's natural for a parent to worry about their children's safety," the psychiatrist explained.  "And in your case, it's downright expected."  Hawkeye wiped a trickle of sweat from his forehead.  "But in all honesty, I think we still have some unresolved issues to discuss."

* * *

Hunnicutt Residence

Mill Valley, California

Sunday, January 2, 1955

            B.J. tossed the front-page news onto the floor and picked up the sports page.  He'd read the newspaper so many times tonight; he almost had the whole thing memorized.  The black print was starting to look blurry.  He was too exhausted to do any type of reading, but he felt too wired to sleep.  He placed a kettle on the stove to boil some tea.  The bird in the cuckoo clock emerged two times from its cage, reminding B.J. that he was yet again the only living soul in the Bay area to be fully awake at such an early morning hour.  He wished he knew why he couldn't sleep.  His sleep-deprivation had almost cost him a patient last week.  He tried tea, sleeping pills, going to bed early, going to bed late – anything that had the remotest chance of working – and found himself pacing around the downstairs kitchen at 2 a.m.  He wondered what his old bunkies were doing lately.  _Probably sleeping – something I apparently know nothing about._  The teakettle whistled, and as B.J. brought the steeping drink to the table, he felt the urge to talk to somebody.  _Even Charles.  I'd talk to Charles._  

            "If this isn't an emergency, you will regret the day you were born," a pompous and groggy voice threatened.

            B.J. stared wide-eyed at the telephone receiver in his hand.  _Oh god!  Did I just call Winchester?_

            "Hello?" Charles repeated angrily.  "To whom am I speaking?"

            "It's B.J.," the tired doctor answered.  "We served together in …"

            "I know who you are," Winchester cut in.  "I am getting close to setting my alarm for five-thirty in the morning so I can be awake for your midnight telephone calls."  His voice softened, showing whatever concern he was capable of showing.  "Is there something wrong, Hunnicutt?" 

            "No, no, everything's fine," B.J. assured his old friend.  "I couldn't sleep.  I've been learning yesterday's news by heart, drinking tea, and wearing holes in the downstairs carpet."  He let the tea warm his throat.  "It's dull being the only one awake."

            "Why didn't you call Pierce?"

            "You were the first person I thought of, to tell you the truth."

            Charles groaned.  "So, naturally, if you cannot sleep, then nobody else can, either."

            "I didn't mean to," he apologized.  "I thought about calling you, and the next thing I know, I'm hearing your voice on the other end of the line."

            "May I ask you a question, Hunnicutt?"

            "Already did," the Californian joked.

            The Bostonian was not so easily amused.  "How long has it been since you've gotten a decent night's sleep?"

            "My flight home from Korea," Hunnicutt answered.  

            "Have you tried sleeping pills?" Winchester asked, stifling a yawn.

            "I've tried everything," the tall doctor explained.  "I didn't wake you up, did I?"

            "Of course not," Charles said sarcastically.  "I make it my prerogative to study chess strategies every morning before six."

            "It's 2 a.m. in California," B.J. informed the ex-major.  He rubbed his eyes.  "Bring your chess board over to my house.  I think I can finally beat you."

            "I live in Boston …" Charles reminded his former bunkmate.

            "Oh, that's okay.  You've got plenty of time to get here.  We don't eat breakfast till seven."

            "… The other side of the country," he continued.

            B.J. leaned his head against the back of the chair and closed his eyes.  "So have Uncle Sam put Massachusetts on the next flight to the West Coast," he mumbled.  A nagging sensation in the back of his mind forced his eyes to open.  _Erin's not going anywhere,_ he reminded himself for the umpteenth time.  _And neither are you, Beej._

            "Your daughter is perfectly alright," the aristocratic surgeon assured the insomniac.  

            It was then that B.J. realized he had stated his thoughts aloud.  "I think that's why I'm having trouble falling asleep," he admitted.  "I'm happy to be home, and it's great to be with Peg and Erin, but what …" he yawned.  "What if this is just a terrific dream?  I go to sleep in Mill Valley in the dream – I wake up in Ouijongbu to the sound of choppers.  This isn't a dream, is it?" he asked.

            "No, this is real life," his ex-bunkmate informed him.  "As difficult as it is to comprehend in your current state, the war ended well over a year and a half ago."

            If there was one thing the former captain understood, it was his wife's entrance into the kitchen in about the next ten minutes.  On his more restless nights – such as this one – B.J. went downstairs so as not to disturb Peg.  The footsteps on the stairs would remind him that he was indeed keeping his wife awake as well.  He figured his actions were a continual reminder of his leaving her and Erin alone for nearly two whole years.  "How are you holding up, Charles?"

            "I'm doing as well as can be expected."

            The tone of his friend's voice made B.J. grow a bit suspicious, but he decided not to air his concerns.  That would mean he himself being forced to unload the pressure from his mind – and he was not ready to do that yet.  The nearly finished cup of tea was starting to look blurry.  "Sleep deprivation isn't healthy, is it, Charles?"  He suppressed another yawn.  "Wake me when this is all over, will ya?"

            "Hunnicutt, you must be exhausted – pretty soon you'll start to make sense," Charles quipped.

            Faint snoring on the other end of the line was his only reply.

* * *

Harrington Estate

Boston, Massachusetts

Wednesday, March 23, 1955

            "…And then Father said, 'Somebody remove this beggar off my property!'  Really now, Charles, can you believe the nerve of those riffraff?" Camille Fanshaw Rutherford scoffed.  She stopped her tirade long enough to take a sip of water.

            The maid came to the table, sparing Charles from listening to Camille's snooty whining.

            "What would you like to start off with?" she asked.  Her accent made it sound more like _Vot vould you like to start off vit?_  She appeared to be somewhere in the age range between Charles and Honoria, placing her in her mid-to-late twenties or early thirties.  Chestnut brown hair was pulled back into a bun, and amber eyes held the expression Charles had witnessed many a time during the war.

            "A bottle of cognac, please," Charles told the maid.  

            "Make that two bottles," Ebert Grayson Harrington interjected.  "Oh, I almost forgot – Charles, Camille, I'd like you to meet Irena Dubrowski.  Irena, this is Dr. Winchester and Miss Rutherford." The couple nodded politely at the maid and resumed their conversation.

            "I admit, I felt a bit sorry for the poor old man," Camille continued.  "So, I decided to be gracious and toss a few dollars into his cap.  And, mind you, he was ecstatic."

            "I'm sure he was," Charles said dryly.  "What happened to Lise?" he asked their hosts.  

            "We caught her stealing from my mother," Justine Harrington answered.  

            "I should have warned you, Justine," Camille said.  "Those Jews are all alike."

            Irena returned to the dining room and poured the cognac into four glasses.

"Irena's different," Ebert assured everyone, as if she wasn't even in the room.  "She knows her place."

"And she's only a Lithuanian," Justine added.  "Lise thought she was above the others because of her 'German blood'.  No wonder Hitler wanted to do away with them."

Irena gripped the edge of the table and stared at the floor to hide her paling complexion.  "Should I bring out the salad?" she asked.  

Charles gave her a sympathetic smile.  "That would be nice," he answered.  Ebert had been a classmate of Charles at the academy.  He had never had any problems with his friend in the past – and now, just like with Camille, he was beginning to wonder where all these shallow snobs had come from.  _I was never this awful – was I?_  The disturbing thought stayed in the back of his mind throughout the entire evening.  He tried to drown out the others' hateful rhetoric and concentrate on his dinner.

"Well, my friend, it was good to see you again," Ebert said once Camille had left with her chauffeur.

"Likewise," Charles answered.  He put on his cap and started the three-block walk to his estate.  As he passed the corner bus stop, he noticed Irena leaning against the pole, smoking a cigarette.  

"Good evening," he addressed her.

            "Good evening, sir," she replied.

            "Do you have very far to travel?" he inquired.  "That's over thirty blocks," he gasped when she told him where she was headed.  "Walking alone is dangerous this time of night."     

"I know," she said.  "But the buses stopped running over an hour ago."

            "Why don't I have Harrington's chauffeur drive you home," he offered.  "Better yet, I'll have my own do it."

            She shook her head.  "Thank you for the offer, Dr. Winchester, but I think I can manage."

            "Then would you at least allow me to escort you?"  _Winchester, what on earth are you doing?  You never used to concern yourself with the well being of the lower class before._  "I could use the exercise.  Where are you originally from?" he asked once they began the trek toward her apartment.

            "Vilna," she answered.  "And you?"

            "I've lived in Boston my entire life.  Minus the year I spent in Korea, anyways."

            "Were you a soldier?"

            "No, I was a surgeon."  They passed by a street flautist and Charles found his muscles tensing.

            "Is something the matter?"

            "Everything's fine," he answered brusquely.   _Get a hold of yourself, Winchester_, he scolded himself.  He could easily envision the Chinese flautist in the Bostonian flautist's place.  It was then that he noticed Irena nervously wringing her hands.  "Are you alright?" he inquired.

            She cast her eyes toward the pavement and then looked up at Charles.  "My mother played the flute," she whispered.


	4. With A Little Help From My Friends

Copyright and Author's Rambling

                This is the last chapter in this story (I think).  I will now begin _Children of the Swamp_, which tells about the offspring of our favorite staff members of the 4077th Mobile Army Surgical Hospital.  Like always, I do not own anybody you recognize from the television series.

                The title of this chapter (and the following lyrics) is from the song _With A Little Help From My Friends, _words and music by John Lennon and Paul McCartney.

_What would you think if I sang out of tune?_

_Would you stand up and walk out on me?_

_Lend me your ears and I'll sing you a song,_

_And I'll try not to sing out of key._

_Oh, I get by with a little help from my friends._

_Mmm, I get high with a little help from my friends._

_Mmm, gonna try with a little help from my friends._

Chapter Four: With A Little Help From My Friends

           

Pierce Residence

Crabapple Cove, Maine

Friday, May 27, 1955

            "Checkmate." Charles folded his hands over his chest and leaned back in his chair.

            B.J. threw up his arms and glared at his smug opponent.

            "Do you know what your problem is, Beej?" Hawkeye asked.  "You're too impatient."

            B.J. turned to his former roommate.  "Oh?  And you think you can do better?"

            Hawkeye nodded.  "As a matter of fact …"

            B.J. snorted.  "Sure you can."

            "Do I detest the makings of a duel?" Hawkeye asked in a phony upper crust British accent.

            Charles coughed.  "Gentlemen …" he began.

            "Yes, Chas?" they chimed in unison.  

            Daniel Pierce leaned against the threshold of the kitchen door and observed the banter that was taking place on the back porch.  It relieved him to see Hawkeye smile and joke again.  The son he had now was not the same as the one who left for Korea nearly five years earlier.  The panic attacks were decreasing over time, but his eyes still held a look of terror whenever he held his daughter.  No matter how many times Daniel assured him that Diana was not going to break, he continued to possess his – _unreasonable_, Daniel thought – fears.  Diana had just had her first birthday, and Hawkeye had invited his old "Swamp mates" to a belated celebration.  The presence of his old friends seemed to be putting the sparkle back into his son's eyes.  Finally, Daniel approached the makeshift chess table.  "Were they always this crazy?" he inquired of Charles.

            "Sometimes worse," B.J. grinned.  Daniel could see why Hawkeye had been drawn to this – as Hawk had called him – tall man with big feet and a cheesy mustache (although he had shaved the mustache once he returned home).  He was gentle, faithful to his family and friends, and an uncanny practical jokester.

            "I have been sent to tell you boys lunch is almost ready."

            B.J. winced.  "You let Peg cook?"  He moved a pawn.

            Hawkeye jabbed his father's arm.  "It's been awhile since we've had a woman in this house."

            And you're going to keep your hands off of her," his friend warned.  "Peg's not known for her culinary skills," he explained to the elder Pierce.

            "The little lady assisted in the operation," Daniel informed him.  "You wouldn't begrudge that child from enjoying her cooking, now would you?"

            Hawkeye snorted.  "A three-year-old chef?  Ha!"  He leaned back in the wicker chair.

            "Almost four," B.J. corrected.  "Move already!  This isn't brain surgery."

            "We let Hawk cook once when he was five," Daniel said, ignoring his son's pleading looks.  "His mother and I were up the entire night hugging the toilet bowl."

            "I'll take that as a warning not to consume Pierce's culinary endeavors," Charles quipped.

            "Would you make your move?" B.J. complained.

            Hawkeye scrutinized the chessboard.  "I will if you stop hounding me.  I need to concentrate."

            A yellow-haired toddler slammed open the door, breaking the doctor's concentration.  "Lunch!" she announced.  She ran toward B.J., who immediately swung her into the air.  "It's time for lunch," she repeated.

            "Don't worry, Pierce," Charles said as they shuffled into the house.  "We'll keep your plate warm."

            Hawkeye made a face at the Bostonian and moved a knight.

The chess game was resumed immediately after lunch.  The game came equipped with the usual quips and banters of the Swamp rats, but (thankfully) was absent of choppers, shellfire, and wounded.  B.J. suppressed a yawn and snatched the pawn his bishop had landed on.

"Have you been getting enough sleep?" Charles asked.

B.J. blinked and forced his eyes open.  "About three or four hours in a twenty-four hour period."

"You need more sleep than that," Hawkeye told him.  "Your body can't function otherwise."

"I'm a doctor, remember?  'Sleep' is a foreign word."

"Have you tried closing your eyes?"

B.J. shook his head.  "I don't feel like it."

"You force yourself to stay awake?"

"Yes … no … maybe … I don't know."  _I don't want to have this conversation right now.  So I have insomnia.  So what?_

"What do you do all night?"

"He places telephone calls to people across the continent and interrupt their slumber," Charles put in.

For a moment, Hawkeye looked hurt that his best friend didn't call him.  His demeanor changed when B.J. reminded him that "it's much more fun pestering Chas."

"Maybe you should consider placing a call to Sidney," Hawk suggested.

The Californian nixed the idea.  "I've always had trouble falling asleep," he lied.  "It's no big deal."

"Daddy!" Erin shouted.  "Daddy, you gotta come here!"  _Oh, god, please tell me nothing's wrong._  "Uncle Hawk!  Uncle Charles!"  _At least this'll give me a chance to get the "doctors" off my back._

The three men rushed inside to find Erin sitting cross-legged against the wall and Diana propped against a footstool.  Erin looked up at her father and her surrogate uncles and grinned.  "Wanna see what Diana can do?" she asked.

They nodded.  "Of course," Hawkeye said.

             "Come on, Diana," she cooed.  "You can do it.  Let's show our daddies."  Diana hoisted herself up and took a few tottering steps before falling into the older girl's outstretched arms.  Erin smiled.  "Yea!" she said, clapping wildly.

            "Yea!"  Diana imitated.

            B.J. swallowed the lump in his throat as he watched the encounter between his and Hawkeye's daughters.  Although not yet four-years-old, Erin had taken an immediate and maternal liking to the young toddler.  She insisted on sitting next to Diana's high chair at meals, helping to feed her, and giving her a kiss before bedtime.  He had missed out on Erin's first steps, and now she was helping another child take hers.

            "There is nothing more precious than the small steps of a small child," Charles commented quietly.

            " 'Gain!" Diana said.  She tugged Erin's sleeve.  " 'Gain!" she repeated.  

            Hawkeye knelt down beside the two girls.  "Mind if I give it a try?" he asked his "niece."

            B.J. felt a hand gently rest against his arm.  He planted a kiss on Peg's cheek and wrapped his arm around her body.  "They're beautiful, aren't they?" Peg whispered.  He nodded in agreement.

            Diana wobbled into her father's arms.  Hawkeye scooped her up and hugged her close to his chest.  "That's my baby," he cooed.  "That's my little girl."  His eyes were moist yet smiling.

            "Are you alright, Pierce?" Charles inquired.

            Hawkeye sniffled and turned to his former bunkmate.  "I'm the best I've been in nearly two years."


	5. Hail, Hail, the Gang's All Here

**Copyright and Author's Rambling**

                Here is another chapter.  I decided to start _Children of the Swamp _when the children are old enough to narrate their own stories.  I may or may not do revisions to this chapter; be forewarned.

                I'm not sure where _Hail, Hail, the Gang's All Here _is from.  It's not mine though.  I'll have to look it up and give credit where credit is due.

Chapter Five: Hail, Hail, the Gang's All Here 

Railroad Station

Hannibal, Missouri

Tuesday, July 1, 1958

            Andrew Blake grabbed his little brother's arm and pulled him away from the edge of the station platform.  "C'mon, kid," he said, leading Eddie to a bench where their sisters were sitting with the luggage.  Andrew took a seat; Eddie paced in front of the bench.

            "Where'd Mom go?" the seven-year-old asked.

            Janie glanced up from her book.  "She's waiting for the cab," she answered and resumed her reading.

            "By the time the cab gets here, it'll be Christmas," Molly complained.

            "Oh, stop your bellyaching," Andrew scolded the ten-year-old.  _I've gotta think of something to keep these runts quiet._  "Who's up for a game of 'Twenty Questions'?"

            "Me!  Me!  Me!" Eddie shouted, jumping up and down.

            "Only if you sit," Andrew told him.  The boy plopped down, sandwiching Andrew between Molly and Eddie.  "Got someone, kid?"

            "The Lone Ranger," Eddie piped up.

            Molly shook her head.  "You're not supposed to say who it is, dummy."

            "Hey!  I ain't a dummy," he retorted.  "You are!"  He pinched his sister, resulting in a high-pitched yelp.

            "Would you cut that out, you two?" Andrew shouted.  He felt someone jab him in the ribs.  "Molly …" he scolded the guilty party.  He pointed to an empty, adjacent bench.  "Go sit over there," he ordered.  She complied, but the two siblings continued to make faces at each other.  He took a quick peek at Janie's book.  "You're reading Anne of Green Gables again?"  She nodded.  "How many times are you gonna read that stupid book?"

Janie yanked the book away from her brother.  "It's not 'stupid'," she said.  

Although only a year apart, the brother and sister could not be more different.  While Janie was quiet and reserved, Andrew was the class clown.  She occupied her time with her books; he loved nothing more than a good prank.  At the moment, he was wondering what the girl would say if she found a Nudist Monthly centerfold glued to some of the pages.  _She'd probably rat on me and I'd have to give Mom the magazine,_ he realized.  _I don't want to owe Jack's brother money._  He nixed the idea and tried to conjure up something else.

A family of five approached the benches.  "Mind if we sit down?" a man in an Irish-Bostonian accent asked.

"Fine by me," Andrew said.  He, Janie, and Eddie scooted over to make room for the man and – they presumed – his wife.  Their three children, two girls and a boy, took seats on the bench behind them.  The man took a notebook out of his briefcase and opened it to a diagram of what appeared to be a chest.

"Are you a doctor?" Andrew inquired.

"Yes, I am," the man replied.  "The name's McIntyre.  Dr. John McIntyre."

"My dad was a doctor," Andrew told Dr. McIntyre.  "He served in Korea."

"No kidding," Dr. McIntyre said.  "Me, too.  How long was he there for?"

Andrew suddenly realized he had an interest in his loafers.  "He never made it home," he informed the doctor.  "His plane crashed and everybody onboard died."  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw McIntyre scrutinizing him.

"I'm sorry to hear that," the doctor said.  "I lost my C.O. the same way."  He rubbed his arm over his light brown curls.  "We spent three days celebrating cause Henry was finally going home."  He turned to the boy.  "What was your dad's name?"

"Blake," Andrew answered.  "Henry Blake."

McIntyre's mouth dropped open.  "You're Henry's son?  Andrew, right?"  Andrew nodded in response to both questions.

 "I served under your dad.   I tell you, he was one helluva guy."  Noticing the boy's discomfort, he changed the subject.  "How old are you, Andrew?"

"Thirteen, sir," he answered.

"My girls are fourteen and twelve," McIntyre said.  "Becky's the oldest.  And my son's six."

"I'm twelve," Janie piped in.

"Then you're the same age as Kathy.  How old is your kid brother?"  Janie told him.  "Hey, Sean, that boy over there is about your age," he said to his young son.  "Why don't you go over there and sit with him."

"Are you going to the 4077th reunion?" Mrs. McIntyre asked.

"Yeah," Andrew replied.  "We took the train down.  Mom doesn't like planes," he added, even though the McIntyres could figure out why.  Lorraine Blake had never been too keen on flying; her husband's death only maximized that fear.  "But I don't think we're gonna make it if the cab don't come soon."

"Why don't we travel to the ranch together," the doctor suggested.  "It'll save gas and money."

"Sure," he answered.  "I'll go tell my mom.  It was real nice meeting you, Dr. McIntyre."

"Call me Trapper," the doctor corrected and clasped Andrew's hand in a firm handshake.

* * *

Potter Ranch

Hannibal, Missouri

Tuesday, July 1, 1958

            Walter O'Reilly stepped out of the automobile and opened the door for his wife.  "When did you want to visit your Aunt Millie?" he asked her.  Patty had mentioned to her aunt that they would be in Hannibal for Walter's M.A.S.H. reunion.  Her aunt and uncle were holding a M.A.S.H. reunion of their own at the same time and invited the family to drop in any time.  Patty barely remembered her uncle; the regular Army doctor was stationed elsewhere during the sporadic visits Patty and her aunt shared over the years.  When they first got engaged, Walter had met and been endeared to his wife's beloved aunt.  Now he could finally meet the warmhearted woman's "better half."

            "Maybe tomorrow," Patty answered.  "I have to call her to get directions."  

            "Can I have a piggy back ride, Pa?" a chubby boy of four asked.  Walter knelt down and hoisted the boy up.  

            "Only until we get to the house," Patty said.

            Sherman Potter greeted the O'Reillys at the door.

            "Radar!"  Potter greeted his former company clerk.  "Good to see you, son."

            Walter tightened his grip on his son's legs.  "Good to see you too, Colonel, sir."

            "How many times do I have to tell you folks?" Potter asked, exasperated.  "It's just plain 'Doc Potter' now."

            "Sorry, Doc Potter, sir."

            The old man shook his head and decided to give up the lost cause.  He turned to the boy on Radar's shoulders.  "And who might you be, young fella?"

            "This is Ben," Patty told her husband's former boss.  She patted the boy's leg.  "Ben, this is the man Daddy worked for in Korea.  His name's Sherman Potter."

            "And you must be Patty.  We sure heard plenty about you at the four-oh-double-natural."  Patty blushed.  "Why don't you folks come inside."  He opened the door and ushered the O'Reillys into the house.

            Walter set Ben onto the floor.  "All right, big guy," he said.  "Piggy back ride's over."

            Ben walked over to Sherman.  "Can I ride Sophie?" he asked.

            The adults tried to hide their smiles.  The old man knelt down in front of the child.  "Sophie's in Korea," he told him.  "You told him about Sophie?" he asked Ben's father.

            "He's crazy about horses," Walter explained.  "You should see his room.  He's got practically every breed memorized."  _Thank god he didn't tell Ben the truth, _he thought.  _The kid's too young to know about death._  Images of Korean children came into his mind just then.  _So many young kids saw their families die … children shouldn't know about death or war._

            "Well, Zippeedeedoo!" Potter yelled ecstatically.  "I'm an old cowboy myself.  You ever ride a horse?"  

            "I rode a pony once," Ben answered.

            The three adults sat down on folding chairs that had been left out.

            "He's helped me groom the horses, feed the horses, and wash the horses," Walter said.  "But he can't ride the horses until he's taller."

            "And if he inherited your genes, he'll never get to ride a horse," a familiar voice ribbed.

            "Hawkeye!" Walter grinned at the sight of the former captain.  Hawkeye Pierce had been a hero and a big brother to Walter during his time at the M.A.S.H. 4077th.  A falling out between the two men threatened to ruin the friendship; in the end, the fight only made their friendship stronger.  Hawkeye stood ramrod straight and saluted his short friend.  Walter returned the salute.  "Anybody here besides you?"

            Hawkeye slapped his hand to his chest, feigning hurt.  "What do you mean, 'besides me?'  I'm insulted."

            "Just the Hunnicutts, Kellye, the Padre, and the Sister," Potter replied.  "The Winchesters and the Burns should be here sometime this afternoon …" Collective groans came from Hawkeye and Walter.  "Can it, you two.  Klinger, Soon-Lee, and their brood have a 1:15 p.m. arrival time at the airport tomorrow.  The Blakes and the McIntyres should be here any minute now."

            A woman entered from the kitchen, a little girl with pigtail-braids in tow.  The girl immediately ran to Hawkeye, who lifted her up in the air.

            "Radar, Patty, I'd like you to meet my wife Mildred," Potter said to his former company clerk and the man's wife.  "Mildred, this here's Radar, one of the most efficient company clerks I've ever had the privilege of working with."   He stopped, suddenly aware of the fact that the three parties were gaping open-mouthed at each other.

            "The flies should arrive soon," Hawkeye quipped.  He and Potter shared puzzled glances.          

            "Aunt Millie!" Patty finally gasped.  "What are you doing here?"

            The old woman drew her niece into a tight hug.  "I could ask you the same question."  She turned to Walter.  "It's good to see you, Walter."

            The short, bespectacled man gave his wife's aunt a quick peck on the cheek.  "Same to you, Aunt Millie."

            Now it was Potter and Hawkeye's turn to be in shock.  "You know my wife?" the surprised ex-colonel inquired.

            "Well, you know Radar," Hawkeye commented.  "Known and loved by every good-looking girl around."

            "He'd better not be," Patty warned, giving her husband a mock glare.

            Mildred Potter took the opportunity to explain the situation to the others.  "Remember when I wrote to tell you that my niece Patty was getting married?" she asked her husband.  He nodded.  "This is her husband Walter."

            "Why in fanny's sweet adams didn't you say anything?" the old man wanted to know.

            "I quit being called 'Radar' when I got home," Walter told him.  "So Aunt Millie's never known me as nothing but 'Walter'."  A sudden look of recognition crossed his face.  "She was that lady in the picture," he said, more to himself than to his old friends.  "No wonder you looked so familiar."

            "We never really talked about Korea," Mildred continued the tale.  "All we really knew was that my husband and Walter both served in M.A.S.H. units there."

            The little girl wrapped her arms around Hawkeye's neck.  "What?  You never heard the names 'Sherman,' 'Mildred,' or 'Potter' before?" he asked his friend as he rumpled the child's hair.

            "I never knew about no 'Sherman Potter'," the young man explained.  He turned to his former C.O.  "I've known you as 'Colonel Potter,' I've known you as 'sir' … heck, I've even heard you called 'that old bird.'"  He grinned mischievously at the others.  "But I've never known you as 'Shermie' or 'Puddin' Head' or 'Tootsie.'"  He felt his face redden as he became aware of the strange looks he was receiving.

            "Pierce, it always worried me that you'd be a bad influence on the boy," Potter deadpanned.  "Now I've been proven right."

            "Who's this sweet young thing?" Patty asked, breaking the mock tension.

            The child in question buried her face in Hawkeye's shirt.  "Her name's Diana," he announced with pride.  "She's kind of shy around strangers," he explained.  

            "Gosh, she looks an awful lot like Major Houlihan," Walter commented.  As an "enlisted slob," he had never had the opportunity to become close to the unit's head nurse.  But it had been a sad day indeed when he received word of her passing.

            "She's a regular 'mini-Margaret'," Potter informed him.  "Just this morning she scolded Mildred for not folding the napkins properly."

            "How old are you, Diana?" Patty asked.  The little girl held up four fingers.  "Why, you're the same age as Ben."  The two children peered at each other from behind their fathers' protection.

            "'Ben?'" Hawkeye echoed in disbelief.  

            "Benjamin Walter O'Reilly," Patty responded.  "I wanted to name our son after a man I admired – his daddy."  She pointed to her husband.  "Walter here wanted to name him after one of his favorite people …" Hawkeye smiled, touched by the young man's gesture of friendship.  "… So we decided to compromise."

            Mildred addressed the children.  "I'm sure in the mood for some oatmeal cookies," she hinted.  "How'd you like to help me bake them?"  Diana nearly leaped from her father's arms and followed Mildred and Ben into the kitchen.

* * *

            "Ooh, she's so precious," Kealani Kellye gushed.  She brushed a finger over the infant's nose.  "What's her name?"

            "Stella Rutherford Winchester," Charles answered, fatherly pride evident in his voice.  He had done his "duty" to the continuity of the Winchester name with the birth of Charles Emerson Winchester IV; secretly, he had always wanted a daughter.  Kellye, Peg Hunnicutt, and Louise Burns were "oohing" and "aahing" over his little girl.

            "How old is she, Charles?" Peg asked.

            "She'll be four months next week."  He wiped the sweat – compliments of the Missouri summer heat – trickling down his neck.

            "That's a mongoloid baby," an annoying voice stated.  Charles looked up and glared at the lipless cretin.

            "Frank, I'd like you to meet Stella," Louise said before Charles could let his short temper get the best of him.  "And this is her father, Dr. Charles Winchester."

            "Winchester …" Frank squealed.

            "The infamous Frank Burns, I presume," Charles said coolly.  "Your comrades were right about you … you are the 'lipless wonder'."  He usually didn't insult men in front of their own wives; this cretin's wife couldn't seem to care less.  He wondered why such a well-mannered woman such as Louise Burns would marry an inept jerk like Frank.  From the stories he'd heard, it was obvious everybody else did, too.

            The dense man didn't seem to be able to take a hint.  "If I ever had an idiot baby, I'd send it to an institution for cuckoos and forget all about it."

            Charles could feel his face turning red.  He glared at the obnoxious cretin.  "And they still let you practice medicine?  Where's your compassion?  God sakes, man, she is a child!"  He emphasized the word "child." 

This was almost like déjà vu.  He'd almost gotten himself expelled from the hospital when Stella was born; the obstetrician, "Ferret Face", and all other "well-meaning" cretins were lucky they didn't have broken necks for suggesting he erase his daughter from his life.  Charles had vowed never to let other people's opinions cloud his judgment; he had learned that with Camille.  He had finally broken down one night and confessed to Camille his reason for shunning music.  Opening up hadn't magically solved all of their problems; it just made things easier to deal with.  He wasn't sure what had possessed him to propose marriage to her.  The action was partly family pressure to carry on the Winchester name with a wife from an elite family and partly because he cared about Camille (he could learn to love her eventually).

            "Frank, why don't you see if Doreen needs help with her hair," Louise instructed.  After the cretin left, she turned to the Bostonian surgeon.  "I'm sorry about my husband," she apologized.  She lowered her voice.  "He's got a lack of brains sometimes.  You'll have to excuse him."

            "I'm going to see if Potter needs any assistance," he told the ladies, gracious for an excuse to catch up with his comrades.  _I'm sure Pierce will be thrilled to know I've decided to join Hunnicutt and him in their practical jokes against Burns.  _He cradled Stella in his arms and headed for the last place the men had congregated – the stable.  He could see Hunnicutt's tall silhouette leaning against the side.  Pierce was waving his arms in his typical manic motion.  Another man, nearly the height of Hunnicutt, was guffawing at the Maine doctor's antics.  This unknown doctor seemed familiar, but he couldn't place him quite yet.

            Hunnicutt waved Charles over to the gathering.  "Better hurry, Charles.  Wouldn't want to miss having fun with us ruffians," he teased.  "Charles, I'd like you to meet the 'Infamous Trapper John."

            Charles heart nearly stopped when he recognized the curly redheaded surgeon.  "McIntyre?" he sputtered.

            McIntyre's jaw dropped open.  "Winchester?"


End file.
